


Western Hospitality

by inbox



Series: Psychic Load [8]
Category: Cable (Comics), Marvel 616, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Begging, Dry Humping, Feminization, Frottage, Light Angst, Light Feminization, M/M, Pregnancy Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Tactile Telekinesis, Teasing, Telepathy, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, bad diner meals and gaudy themed motels as a metaphor for god knows what, light pregnancy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 17:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20915750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: “I’m gonna get a room,” he says abruptly, before he can chickenshit out of doing something pleasant for once. “Over there.” He nods at the motel across the highway.Cable looks at him through the passenger window, patiently waiting for further explanation.“You're gonna join me.” No need to make it a request. One, ‘cause he's sure Cable isn't gonna pass up an offer of an easy lay, and two, the more confident he sounds the less likely Cable is gonna tease him in that way that hits the squirrelly embarrassing part of Frank that, deep down, gets hot and stupid over being spoken to like a silly little boy.“Am I?”“Yeah.” He scoops up his bag from the back seat, feels the weight of a change of clothes. “Come on. Unless you’ve got something else to do.”“Nothing that I can’t cancel.” Cable sounds gratifyingly intrigued as he hits the lock on the passenger side door, hip-checking it shut with a thud. “Mrs Summers, are you inviting me in for coffee?”





	Western Hospitality

It's been a good job. It's been a _ fun _ job. No hardened criminals, no scenery-chewing villains, no people at all. Just him n’ Cable against some huge mutated slug thing that crawled out of a pit somewhere, the pair of ‘em chipping away at a meaty slow moving target under a cool Spring sun somewhere in bumblefuck New Jersey. 

Whatever channels of communication amongst the cape’n’powers crowd handled these things like huge slug emergencies, he's got no idea, but Cable had ended up with the pest control gig and for some reason decided Frank could do with a laugh or two. 

_ Pack your favourite guns, _ he said over the phone. _ Come burn some old stock with me, we’ll get a bite afterwards. It'll be fun. _

And yeah, Cable was right. It was fun. The job - as much as it could be even called a job - was loud and it was stupid and he’n’Cable worked together like a well-oiled team.

Frank ran his arm numb from the thump-thump-thump of an old workhorse m60, oily black and working to perfection, churning old hot hand-load ammo belts that were more of a good idea in theory over execution. He showed Cable how to fire his bloop gun, letting him pick the angle and the pitch of a perfect shot straight from Frank’s brain, and grinned like an idiot when Cable landed a cherry shot from the 40 on his first try. 

In return he laughed, startled, when he took his first few shots from Cable’s boxy hard light machine gun. Cable chuckled and got up real close behind him, a big solid wall of muscle at his back as he corrected his stance to account for the recoil from something that weighed next to nothing yet kicked like a mule. 

He ran that gun ‘til he disintegrated the side of the slug in an exploding shower of meat, and Cable called him a killer and squeezed his ass and asked for another turn on Frank's m60, eager to run that pig hot. Back and forth they went until the (big, slow, completely defenceless) beast was minced meat in a field, loose pieces of meat glistening in the sun and filling the air with the scent of barbecue pork. 

Cable snapped a photo for proof of job completion and they stowed their weapons and took their colours off, and true to his word he took Frank out for a shitty diner meal at a place ten minutes drive away in Frank's stolen chop-shopped pickup.

“Not bad,” Frank acknowledges through mouthful of hard fried egg and hash. He chews hard, and keeps chewing, and chews until he gives up and takes a slug of black coffee in a vain attempt to work it all down. "That how you spend most of your days?"

Across the booth Cable laughs, focused on slopping syrup heavily all over his pancakes and bacon. "I wish. Most of my work is more, ah, hard to describe. It's a lot of juggling being in just the right time and just the right place.” He pauses and gives Frank a slightly guilty smile, shrugging expansively. “You know how it is. Operational secrecy.”

“Huh,” Frank says, watching Cable lick syrup from the side of his thumb, his tongue shockingly pink against the lustrous cold shine of metal skin. He gets the feeling there's a joke here that he's not privy to but, truthfully, he's not inclined to go digging right now. The cumulative effect of an afternoon’s easy effort and the sunshine on his face through the window and the physical memory of Cable’s solid heat pressed to his back lingers on as a hazy feel-good mellow, the rare kind he's got zero inclination to chase off in favour of his usual brand of healthy, life-affirming paranoia.

He feels relaxed and alert and easy-going, two out of three states of being foreign to him, but again, he's not really in the mood to get introspective about it. Not when he can feel Cable brushing against the back of his mind, inquisitive at the way Frank's interest peaks hot when he licks his lips. 

“Got something on your mind?”

From where he's sitting Frank can see a motel across the way. Real mom and pop kind of place, a relic of a bygone era with a big forecourt and a yeehaw country theme incongruously out of place in the Jersey sticks. 

“Maybe,” he allows, pressing the side of his fork down to cut off another chunk of potato hash. He looks at the motel again, running it through his memory. Has he cleaned up there before? Run an op there, scouted for intel, wiped his fingerprints off the doorknobs?

Best he can tell, no. He's got a good memory to begin with, but it's hard to forget a place with a 12 foot concrete saguaro cactus outside the front office. 

Cable scrapes together a massive overloaded forkful of food, watching Frank with interest, the corners of his eyes crinkled up with amusement. He follows the line of Frank's stare, tracks it across the road to the motel and turns back, eyebrows raised in a silent question as he chews. 

_ Magic finger beds, huh? _

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Just trying to remember if I've ever done a job here.”

_ Oh I bet. _ Cable somehow manages to leer while his cheeks bulge with too much pancake. _ You'd be a hell of a honeypot. _

“Shut the fuck up, Summers,” he mutters. The waitress who chose that very moment to appear at his elbow to top his coffee gives him a withering stare. He fails to meet her eyes as he mumbles an apology, all while Cable laughs in his head and flashes him a dirty little fantasy of Frank, tits out and legs spread, thieving the wallet from some faceless goon’s pocket. 

_ I'm not that flexible, _ he thinks grumpily, keeping his head down as his coffee gets refilled fast enough to slop over the side of his mug. _ That's a hip dislocation. _

He can feel the psychic shrug Cable gives that complaint, a hazy ephemeral sensation of _ who cares? _

“Maybe,” allows Cable, mumbled through the last of his mouthful once the waitress finally moves out of hearing distance. “Yoga though. Good stretches. I bet you could put your ankles behind your head by Christmas.” 

“You talking about improving my tactical skills?”

“Sure,” says Cable, theatrically closing his eyes. The flicker of light leaking from his dud eye flares up bright when he gives Frank a long considered look, one corner of his mouth tilted up in a secret little smile. “Tactical skills.”

They eat in companionable silence after that. Cable puts away a prodigious amount of carbs and a milkshake chaser, Frank settles for picking at his cold toast and drinking another cup of black coffee. 

He keeps looking at the motel, keenly aware of Cable watching him. 

“You didn't need me for any of this bullshit this afternoon, did you?” 

“Nope,” says Cable without apology. “I didn't need to put my hand up for it. Wildlife is way below my pay grade.” He picks up his coffee, diner logo facing out, metal fingertips making a delicate clicking sound against the cheap porcelain. “But,” he continues, “Sometimes you gotta take the easy win.”

Frank makes a noncommittal noise. As usual Summers is right. Nothing wrong with taking an uncontested win every now and then, if only to give a bit of breathing room in between every other grating, grinding, impossible shitfight he gets mired in. “You thought I needed an easy score?”

“I thought I'd like to see you,” says Cable simply. “Have a little fun, get a bite.”

“Could've just asked me on a date.” The words are out of his mouth before he can check himself. 

Cable looks at him over the rim of his coffee mug and Frank can feel him delicately skimming the top of Frank's thoughts, an air-light ripple at the back of his skull. The vinyl bench seat squeaks as he puts his mug down and gives Frank an inscrutable look, mismatched eyes pinning him down like a bug on a board. “I'd take you somewhere nicer than a Jersey diner if I thought I could convince you into a date with me, Frank.” 

Frank's not… he knows he's not a romantic. He's seen too much of the world’s true face, seen too much of how mankind truly feels about mankind to be romantic or idealistic. Hell, the fact that the only comparison he can think of for the way his guts immediately freefall into a churning icy hot surge at Cable's thoughtful expression was the time he saw a man swallow pellets of dry ice - ‘cause Frank _ made _ him swallow pellets of dry ice - and crumple to the ground moaning ‘bout how his guts were on fire, is surely a sign that he's not cut out for a life of dinner and drinks and dating. 

It's not a matter of wanting something. Frank wants a lot of things, and one of the things he wants the most happens to be seated across the table of a diner booth, blotting his face with a paper napkin and knocking Frank's trick knee with his stupid long legs and driving a psychic knife into a weak spot that, as far as Frank was concerned, didn't fucking exist before he fell in to this… this _ thing _ with Cable.

He wants a lot of things. It's just that in reality there are some things he's resigned himself to not being allowed, or able, to have. Cable can joke all he wants. So be it. 

“--no ulterior motive,” says Cable, cutting through his distracted train of thought. He pushes his plate back and smiles over Frank’s shoulder, radiating an aura of benign friendliness until the waitress deigns to drop their check. 

Weird, Frank thinks, shoving Cable’s money off the plate and dropping his own crumpled bills in their place, how outta the pair of them it's the one half made from metal who has to duck through doorways and looks like he's got a handful of LEDs lodged in his eye socket who easily wins every time in the civilian approachability department. 

“I asked you out, Frank. I was under the impression that your traditions dictate I'm the one who pays,” says Cable, his tone warm as he slides out of the booth and offers his hand to help him up. 

He should knock his hand away but he indulges himself just once, ignoring the way Cable teasingly strokes his thumb over his and squeezes his fingers.

“Only if it's a date,” he says. “Or you're rubbing my nose in it.”

Cable merely makes a pleasant _ mhmm _ noise under his breath and opens the squeaky diner door, shepherding Frank through with a big warm hand at the small of his back. 

Frank looks at his go-bag tossed in the back of his pickup truck, thinking for a second. He looks at the ugly motel again and his grip tightens on the tailgate, anchoring himself.

“I’m gonna get a room,” he says abruptly, before he can chickenshit out of doing something pleasant for once. “Over there.” He nods at the motel with its stupid giant concrete cactus, like it was easy to miss. 

Cable looks at him through the passenger window, patiently waiting for further explanation. 

“You're gonna join me.” No need to make it a request. One, ‘cause he's sure Cable isn't gonna pass up an offer of an easy lay, and two, the more confident he sounds the less likely Cable is gonna tease him in that way that hits the squirrelly embarrassing part of Frank that, deep down, gets hot and stupid over being spoken to like a silly little boy. 

“Am I?” He can feel the gentle intrusion of Cable in his head, a light pressure at the base of his skull, and Frank allows him to look at what he wants. He wants something simple, a sure thing he can enjoy. He wants to fool around with someone he knows, not go through the stress of finding a date for a couple of hours. Frank wants to feel good and put a cap on this simple stress-free day, treat it like the holiday it's been. Hewants Cable's solid weight on him, in him, over him, wants Cable to be the one making him feel good. 

“Yeah.” He scoops up his bag from the back seat, feels the weight of a change of clothes. “Come on. Unless you’ve got something else to do.”

“Nothing that I can’t cancel.” Cable sounds gratifyingly intrigued as he hits the lock on the passenger side door, hip-checking it shut with a thud. “Mrs Summers, are you inviting me in for coffee?”

Frank laughs once, a weak relieved bark of noise. “I thought this wasn’t a date.”

Cable meets him at the edge of the parking lot, standing at the edge of the two lane roar waiting for some light afternoon traffic to pass. He stands close enough that Frank can feel his body heat through his plain black shirt, throwing up memories of Cable standing at his back and correcting his stance, a huge wall of muscle and meat to rock back into. 

“Can’t be, Frank,” he says airily, resting his hand on Frank's hip, light, just enough for him to feel it. “I _ never _ put out on the first date.”

“You’re that kind of good girl, huh?”

Cable laughs in his head, a big bright bell of noise as they jog across the potholed old highway. _ Wouldn't dream of stepping on your turf. _

“Let me,” says Cable, catching him by the elbow before they reach the motel office. He fights back the urge to twitch at the feel of being caught, fights back the instinctive urge to backhand Cable out of his personal space. “Please. Let me.”

Frank snorts. “Gonna blow your Xavierbucks on a whole forty bucks a night?”

“You’re worth it.” Cable squeezes his elbow. “C’mon. Indulge me. I want to fuck Mrs Summers across the magic fingers bed of her dreams.”

“Jesus christ,” Frank mutters. He can feel the heat of a red flush starting to stain his ears. “I changed my mind. I’m going home.”

“Come on. I’ll make it good for you.” Cable stands upright and smooths down his shirt, and gives Frank a long up and down look, boots to hairline and back again. The phantom touch goosing his ass is completely unnecessary. Cable ignores Frank's half-hearted glower with a wink as he opens the office door with enough enthusiasm to make the door chimes ring like a carillon. 

Frank waits outside while Cable does the mundane business of getting a chintzy cheap motel room from Mom or Pop or whoever is behind the front office counter. Cable is, as before, the more approachable of the two of them, even without the benefit of an image inducer to hide the arm, the eye, the scars, and, well, everything. Simply put, Cable is the most likely of the pair of them to not get told to get bent, or at least more likely to _not_ be given the shittiest motel room with the worst air conditioning 

“--on on a road trip.” He can just overhear Cable’s side of the conversation, in that pleasant tone of voice he deploys to keep mere humans placated, Frank included. “The largest you got. Oh, me? 6’8”, actually. A queen? Don't you worry about it, Beth. I'm used to my feet hanging off the end of the bed.”

Frank rolls his eyes. Cable is being charming and it makes for _ insufferable _listening. 

“Hey,” he says, opening the office door enough to look in. The western theme doubles down even harder inside the office, from the gaudy cactus carpet to the dusty saddle hanging from the wall. Cable grins at him like an idiot, clearly pleased with both Frank's horrible taste and himself for going along with it. 

“Howdy Chuck,” says Cable. “This is Beth. She's offering us _ western hospitality._”

“Hi,” he says, caught off guard. “You forget your wallet? You need me to pay or what.”

“He's just finishing up, honey. I'll book your room next.” Beth, more frosted perm than woman, gives Cable a nakedly appreciative look as she gives him his key. There's a cactus charm hanging from it with the room number written in sharpie, and she melts as he holds it up and says ‘wow!’ with sincerity. 

Frank is gonna kill him. “I'm going ahead,” he says, stepping inside just enough to snatch the key from Cable's hand, cactus and all. “Come find me in our room, _ honey_.”

The motel room is small and stinks of stale bathroom cleaner, and the cheap floral loveseat looks like it’s gonna break if he puts too much weight on it. The bed isn't much better, a confection of ugly printed flowers on the covers and frills on the pillowcases, but at least it might hold the weight of two grown men. If this is the nicer room available, god knows what Beth would've booked him into.

First things first, though. Before he can get too caught up on the prospect of Cable's arrival, he needs to walk the room. Frank looks under the bed, inspects the ceiling, checks the wardrobe. He runs his hands over the cupboard shelves and pulls out the bedside drawers, and shakes out the Gideons for good measure. As far as he can tell the room is clean, no bugs or cameras, but he hasn't survived this long without being cautious.

Cautious. 

He looks at the motel room door and the bed, and back again. He opens the door and leaves it cracked open, waiting for Cable. _ Waiting for his date, _his dumbshit traitorous brain supplies.

The mattress squeaks when he sits on the edge to unlace his boots, watching the door. 

He's got an idea. A stupid idea. A dumb horny idea from a guy who just strained his shoulder blindly sweeping across the top of a chipboard wardrobe for hidden wires, paranoid to the end. 

Frank opens the door wide and shoves his piece under the pillow, and sits on the bed to wait.

“...fourteen, room fifteen. I thought she was gonna combust,” says Cable, ducking through the doorway, distracted. “You can't go ‘round breaking women's hearts like that-- _ Bright fucking Lady, _Frank.”

Cable stops abruptly in the door, huge body silhouetted by the afternoon sun, staring at Frank like he’s a meal set before a starving man. 

“C’mon Summers,” he says, leaning back against the headboard while lazily jerking himself off. “Get your cock out.”

He loudly spits in his hand, getting himself wet enough that his palm makes a slick noise as he masturbates for Cable’s entertainment. The spit is all for show; he's always run wet when he's excited, and right now the sight of Cable staring dumbly at him, one big hand distractedly sliding down the front of his pants and over his stupid x-whatever belt, already has him pearling up a fat drop of precum that breaks and smears with the dragging stroke of his hand.

"Oath, Frank," says Cable, staring at Frank's fist on his cock like it's the secret to life itself. He licks his lips subconsciously, cupping himself through his pants. "You didn't shut the door."

"Doesn't sound like me," he says, leaning back against the hideous pillows and spreading his legs as wide as the denim trapped 'round his knees will allow. Frank holds his dick flat to his gut, not caring that he's staining his shirt with precum, and cups his balls with his hand to squeeze them gently. "You sure _ you _ closed the door?"

In all their time working together and fucking each other, Frank doesn't think he's ever seen Cable's higher functions power off so clearly. His lips are parted slightly, staring fixedly at Frank's hands as he gropes at himself. 

"Pretty sure," he says faintly. He stumbles forward and waves a hand and the door closes behind him, the lock sliding home with an audible click. He rubs the inside of his thigh, working at the seam of metal and flesh Frank knows is hidden under his pants. He likes the nervy feeling it produces, he's told Frank before. Likes the way it tingles and sparks and sometimes burns. Makes the pleasure of a soft mouth on his dick even better, adds a savage nervy spark when they fuck.

Cable talks a lot of smart shit about Frank being a slut for a good hurt; how he loves watching Frank work through the shame of being made to feel physically small and powerless, loves watching Frank whimper and tear up and sob when Cable chokes his dick and tugs at his balls. But, thinks Frank, he's not so good at recognising his own tastes for a frisson of hurt to make his pleasure all the more sweet. 

Frank knows the kind of ache he likes. He likes swoops of intimate pain that core up through his gut, the kind that leaves an ache behind to keep on echoing for a while. Big punches, not savage stabs. He doesn't like sharp pain. Doesn't like his nerves misfiring, hasn't got a taste for that blinding blue-white arc light of overstimulated raw nerves that Cable likes. 

Maybe that's the real difference between them both. Cable is a colossus; better than human, the next step in evolution. He's a walking fortress, standing head and shoulders above regular people. Frank is just some guy, unevolved and unenhanced. He takes a long time to trust someone to hurt him, and when they do he craves the kind of pain he can dig his teeth through. He wants big rolling waves of ache that he can ride out and force into pleasure, safe in the knowledge that the more he endures now, the better it will be when he finally coasts those waves into pleasure and then a well-earned orgasm. 

Cable just likes it to be unsettling and nervy, over-sensitised and shocking. Sometimes he feels it over their shared connection, when Cable is losing his control and the sting of raw nerves leaks over and zaps his brain. Sometimes it feels good, sampling it from a distance like that. Sometimes it feels like his skin is on fire, raw and wild, and he clings onto Cable like a dying man until the secondhand sizzle fades. 

"Get your dick out," he says again, forcing himself to sound as bored as possible. "C'mon Summers. If you’re not interested then I'll find someone in this cowboy shithole of a motel who is." Frank's hand on his cock works faster, root to tip, and he nods when Cable unzips and shoves his jock down to pull out his perfect dick, already filling out thick and solid. "That got you moving, huh?"

"Yeah," says Cable. "Don't want anyone else to see you like this."

"Worried they might fuck me better than you?"

Cable closes his eyes for a moment, nostrils flaring as he draws back great breaths through his nose. "No," he says, voice thin. "I know they can't."

For the first time ever it's Frank's turn to be a huge pain in the ass and say _ hmmm _ under his breath. He pulls off his shirt and tosses it at Cable who catches it with his spooky mind magic, pulling it towards him ‘til he can snatch it from the air.

He lifts his chin enough to look at Cable through his eyelashes, smug and insufferable and feeling great about it, waiting ‘til Cable’s got his face buried in Frank’s old tee to say, lightly, "You sure about that?" 

He looks up from the shirt, every line of his huge solid body suddenly radiating a very subtle interest. "Why? You cheating on me, Captain Castle?" Cable’s hand on his cock never stops, slow featherlight strokes from root to tip. 

Frank shrugs, putting enough slow showy effort in the movement that Cable can't help but stare openly at the bunch and flex of his muscles, eyes tracking fast from arms to pecs and back again likes gonna miss something vital if he doesn't pay attention. As a rule Frank isn't inclined to preening but if it's gonna get him heady attention like this, then he could change his mind real quick. "Maybe. Might be bullshitting you too."

"Tell me."

"Why? You jealous?"

Cable groans and presses the shirt back to his face. The faded black cotton and his gleaming metal fingers are nowhere near enough to hide the ugly red flush starting to crawl over his cheeks. "Yes. Tell me."

"You sure you wanna know?"

"Yes." Cable's on the cusp of whining now, and something about this huge man - tall and heavy and so broad across the shoulders that he nearly brushes through doorways, a killer, an operative, the mutant’s hard man of choice - turning into a whiny desperate little bitch over Frank’s dangled treat, well… no shame in admitting it kinda makes him feel bulletproof. "Please Frank."

Frank opens his mouth then thinks better of it. He decides to tell him anyway. Fuck it. Why not. He hadn't been planning on revealing this particular indiscretion today, or maybe ever. Maybe not until Logan next showed up in New York and Cable got caught in the middle of their usual fuck’n’fight routine, ‘cause god knows that would tickle Logan's sense of humour to a T. But, given that Cable seems invested in the idea of Frank slutting around, he might as well lay all his cards on the table. 

Only two ways it might shake out. One might be fun. One might be the solution to finally fixing Frank’s pathetic unattainable crush, cauterising it out for good. 

Well, fuck it. Only one way to find out. 

"That last trip overseas I took. Went to Madripoor, remember?" 

Cable nods, staring transfixed at the steady stroke of Frank's hand on his dick. 

"Madripoor," he says again. "You remember who lives there?"

He watches Cable's loading time go extra long, his mental processes lagging slow. "Logan?" 

Frank spreads his thighs a little wider, denim shifting, and waits for Cable's brain to catch up to his mouth. 

Cable groans like he's been gut-shot, sagging against the motel door. "Bright fucking Lady," he says. He clutches at the base of his dick, thick metal fingers gleaming oily and dark under the overhead light. "You did, didn't you. Oath, Frank. God, I wish I could've seen you." He makes a pitiful noise in the back of his throat, a pathetic whine. "Did he fuck you? Did you fuck him?" 

He laughs, embarrassed. "You sound way too into this, Summers."

"Frank, you have no idea." Cable starts to jerk off again, faster this time. "Where?"

"The Princess. Top floor, his space. You been there?"

"Couple of times. Only for work."

"He's got an apartment upstairs. Big. Nice and cool." Frank's hand sounds wet on his cock. "He fucked me bareback on his big stupid daybed."

"Bright fucking Lady," Cable breathes. "He come in you?"

Frank gives him an arch look.

"Want to know if he got you pregnant," Cable says, staring at him hotly. Golden light starts to flare and arc from his dud eye. "i need to know if he knocked my pretty girl up."

The heat rising on Frank's cheeks feels hot enough to sting. "Knock that shit off. Jesus."

"Tell me."

"Three times," Frank says. "He came in me three times." He thumbs the head of his dick, smearing the copious drool of precum spilling down his shaft and staring Cable straight in the eye as he sucks his thumb clean. "I've known that hairball for nearly 15 years," he says. "You know I've never seen him get as wild as he did when he found out you'n'me were fucking."

Cable makes a soft noise, the sound of a man being overwhelmed by his imagination. 

"He kept asking if he fucked better than you. Made me come better than you."

The flare of light from Cable's eye brightens for a moment, snapping and fading under the dim yellow glow of the overhead light and its repeating pattern of cowboys and cactuses. "Tell me."

"Yeah," says Frank, hoping to god he hasn't been reading Cable wildly wrong for the last few minutes, else this is gonna get real awkward _ real _ fast. “He does.”

The look of anguish and delight on Cable's face is the kind of thing that Frank wants to memorise forever, to draw on when he's cold and alone and the nights are getting too long. Cable looks like all his Christmases have come at once _ and _ like Frank slapped him in the face, indulged and punished in equal measure. 

It's a good look. Better than Frank could've imagined. 

“Come here.” He pats his thigh and lifts his hips enough to shove his jeans off proper, smirking as Cable inelegantly collapses on the edge of the bed to take off his boots and tac pants, clumsily hampered by the erection curved hard and leaking against his belly. When he's naked, or naked enough to be useful, he crawls on his knees up the bed and falls between Frank’s thighs, slumping down to kiss him frantically.

_ Frank. Please baby, let me see. _ He can feel Cable's mind bump hard against his, the usual careful entry into his conscious mind made sloppy and inelegant by the fact Cable is nearly vibrating out of his skin with anticipation. _ Please I wanna see, oath Frank, show me. I want it. _

Frank bites at his lips and kicks his legs out so they can rock against each other, too eager to take it easy. He scrapes his cheek against Cable’s stubble and presses their foreheads together, skin sticking sweaty and hot, and lets Cable in with a shiver.

Cable moans in his head and falls on Frank's memory, greedy, rummaging through his brain like he can't decide which part to look at first. He veers wildly from sampling Frank's pleasure of a good shower to the press of Logan's hand heavy and warm on Frank’s spine. The unshakable weight of Logan’s palm shoving Frank’s face into the slatted daybed, the way water beaded on a glass of soda water and ice. _ Princess, pretty girl, _ equally embarrassed and proud when Logan says _ Mrs Summers _ in that bemused teasing tone of voice. Frank arching his back and grinding back onto Logan’s mouth, turning an ugly beet red flush at the promise of being passed around the bar downstairs like a party favour easy for anyone to use. 

Cable slows and lingers on the memory of Frank squirming fitfully on the bed, twitching on Logan's stocky thick cock while Logan chugs his beer and ignores the huge man under him whining soft that he wants to come. 

_ Bright Lady, _ he whispers reverently in Frank’s head, replaying the scene back again and again. _ Captain Castle, oh. _Logan spilling beer on Frank’s back, holding him firm so Frank can't work a hand under himself to grasp at his cock. Frank’s hole, already rimmed with cum, stretched tight ‘round that still hard dick ‘cause, as Logan always points out, he's always got more than one load for Frank. 

Cable's interest burns white hot in Frank's head. It cuts like a knife, a searing blade that hacks away at any lingering doubts about the fact that Cable is deeply, irrepressibly interested in the idea that Frank has been stepping out on him. 

“Amazing,” Cable breathes against his lips. “God, I wish I'd been there.”

He makes a stupid noise at that, an embarrassing tell-tale giveaway that sets Cable off making shushing noises into Frank's mouth, little _ shh-shh-shh _ sounds in between kisses, like Frank's a wild animal two seconds from spooking. 

There's no hiding the image that wells up in his imagination right then and there, _ I wish I'd been there. _Frank’s hands digging into the wooden slats of the daybed and his knees rubbing red raw with friction, struggling to keep his composure as Logan rails him with sharp short thrusts. Cable in front of him, so close Frank can smell him, clean sweat and cold light, something familiar to focus on while he gets fucked raw on a swampy humid Madripoor evening. 

He doesn't know what he likes best; the idea of Cable keenly interested, groping his cock as Frank gets pounded rough and raw right in front of him, or Cable cool and aloof and regarding him with benign interest as Frank gets the sense knocked outta him by Logan’s greedy relentless fucking.

They both have their appeals, and judging by the pleasurable incoherent noise of _ oath frank slut my pretty girl captain look at me wet loose take it castle looks good anytime mrs summers show me _ leaking outta Cable’s head and blooming in Frank’s mind, Cable can't pick which one he likes best either.

Frank's never gonna go too far out of his way to avoid Logan, not as long as they're loosely on the same side. They might not see square on pretty much anything and he's suffered more than a fair share of beatings from the little asshole, and usually paid them back with interest, but overall Logan never complicates their interactions any more than offering a good fight or a good fuck. Logan is easy and straightforward to deal with. He's uncomplicated. 

Unlike this right here with Summers, right now, which is so goddamn complicated that it makes Frank's head hurt. They work together, employer and employee, ‘cept when they don't, and sometimes they fool around to burn off adrenaline after a job, but sometimes the job is just the excuse for the fooling around part. Sometimes Cable just drops by for a beer, or Frank makes some excuse to text him, and they fuck in motels and safehouses and Frank's van and Cable’s ugly homely apartment where Frank keeps a toothbrush and a can of antiperspirant. Maybe lately they’ve been finding excuses to fuck more than they find excuses to work, and maybe there are just as many excuses to spend another night together, or stretch it to a weekend, or just as long as they can eke out before real life and the war reassert themselves. 

Maybe Frank gives it up better than anyone else, or just easier than anyone else. Or Cable has no other options, as unlikely as that is. 

Maybe Frank’s just resigned himself to making a lot of excuses to avoid saying what he really wants. As long as Cable remains blissfully ignorant to the fact that Frank _ wants_, full stop, he can keep himself going for years on these brief moments, treating them like survival rations until Cable finally wises up and moves on, or Frank gets over it, or one of them - both of them - clock out for good when their luck runs out on the job. 

Like he said. So goddamn complicated it makes his head hurt, even with Cable filling his bran with dick-drunk secondhand static about how good Frank looks when someone else is fucking him through the floor. 

"Frank," whines Cable, rolling his hips against him, shaking Frank outta his reveries. His voice is muffled as he pants into the thick muscle of Frank's shoulder. "Fuck, sweetheart. I wanna watch him fuck you. I wanna take your mouth while he breeds you up."

_ Jesus. _Frank hasn't allowed himself to even think about that. That had been a line too far; too greedy, too sinful. Cable's perfect dick stoppering up his throat and Logan's thick cock fucking his asshole loose… god, what a thought. On his hands and knees maybe, a good piece of ass for them to grope and move and use 'til he's gasping for breath. Or maybe they’d take him on his back so they can both see how hard he is for them, how he squirms and flushes red as they use him until he's fucked wet and loose and desperate to take another load in his mouth and his ass. 

"Both of us," says Cable. "You could take us both, Frank. You want that? You think you could fit us both in you together?"

The image Cable shoves in front of Frank's mind is hazy ‘round the edges and the colours bleed too bright, but he can see himself pinned between them, arms slung ‘round the thick muscle of Cable's neck, eyes closed as he pants shallow fast breaths into Cable's face. He can feel Cable's perfect cock notched in his asshole, holding still in him ‘cept for a shallow rock, keeping him steady as Logan hunches over behind him and bullies his dick into Frank's straining tight hole. 

_ Easy does it, Princess_, says Logan in his head. His breath tickles the short hairs behind Frank’s ear, stubble scraping against the soft skin under his jaw. Cable steadies Frank's shoulders, reaches back and holds his hand, kisses him rough and says low, _ my pretty girl, oath, look at my slutty wife getting what he needs _ while Logan grumbles and says _ shut up, goddamn, you both save that shit for the honeymoon._

Frank laughs, winded and overwhelmed. “Just like the real thing, huh.”

“Next time.” Cable groans in harmony with himself, both inside Frank's head and against Frank’s ear. “Anytime you want that,” he says. “Just say the word.”

Frank spits on his palm and shoves his hand between them, wrapping his fingers ‘round their dicks and pressing them together. Cable feels so good, that gorgeous pretty pink length held hard and hot against his own ugly dick. All of him feels too good; all that muscle, all that strength, pushing him into the mattress as he fucks into Frank’s fist, sucking a mean bruise into Frank’s neck, leaking a static wash of noise into Frank's head that sings of shameful delight and unashamed want and a sense of overwhelming hunger that fills Frank's head up until he can't think of anything except right now; the two of them rutting against each other, locked away from the world in a shitty hotel with cowboy art on the wall and a concrete cactus on the forecourt. 

“Whenever,” he pants, rubbing up against Cable, chasing the twisting furl of his building orgasm. He shoves his free hand under the hem of Cable's shirt, clutching at his back and feeling the muscles move under his palm, flesh and metal both. He finds the seam of metal biting into flesh just to the side of his spine and rubs at it, feeling the taut scar tissue resist the pressure of his fingertips, feeling Cable moan and shudder through the white hot flare of nerves that snap across their connection. “You tell me and I'll be there. Whenever you want, Summers.”

_ Whenever you want, _ he blurts out in the privacy of his head. _ However you want me. _

Maybe Cable was listening. Maybe he wasn't. Either way he sucks back a huge gasp of air and yanks up his shirt before he's coming with a grunt, hitching his hips into the squeezing heat of Frank's hand until his fingers are so wet with cum that he slides from Frank's grip. He buries his face into the crook of Frank's neck, breathing hard, mindlessly mouthing at the thick curve of muscle as he shudders through the last of his orgasm, cock twitching against the side of Frank’s hand. 

“Oath,” he says after a while, dazed. “I'm crushing you. Let me get…”

“Stay there,” barks Frank. “On me.” He pulls his hand free and digs his fingers into Cable’s flanks, holding him down and forcing all that solid fucked-out bulk push him down into the motel mattress. He bucks his hips and chases his orgasm, tantalisingly close but just out of his reach. 

“C’mon pretty girl,” mumbles Cable into Frank's skin, blindly fumbling until he can grab Frank's arm, tug at the solid muscle until he can lace their fingers together, ignoring the wet slide of semen on his palm. “Wanna feel you come. Wrap your legs around me, sweetheart, that's it.”

Frank digs his heels into Cable's back and grinds against the immovable weight of him. His cock scrapes against Cable’s coarse pubic hair, slick with the slide of fresh semen, and he's so far gone he can't clutch at the thread of shame of how pathetic and needy he sounds in his own head as he begs, _god__, please, stay there, lemme feel you. Please, I need to cum, talk to me, I'm so close-- _

“Captain Castle, you still haven't told me if he got you pregnant,” says Cable slyly, and that's it, he's done. Frank lets out an ugly animal yowl and comes so hard he loses his breath. His cum smears hot and wet between them, smearing down his side, his dick throbbing in deep jerks until he's drained empty.

“Jesus christ,” Frank pants when he's done, he's finished, he's got nothing more to give. He pushes Cable with his knee, suddenly desperate to take a full lungful of air. Cable rolls off with a grunt, saving his crumpled shirt from falling into the mess on his belly, hauling it over his head with his clean hand. He tosses it onto the loveseat and slumps back onto the floral print coverlet, breathing hard and boneless.

Frank can feel Cable in his head, just obtrusive to make himself known, sampling the thoughts bubbling at the top of the confused messy stew he's got for a brain. 

“I’m good,” he says, wiping the sweat on his forehead away with the chintzy frill on the corner of his pillowcase. “Jesus. More’n good.”

_ Mmhmm, _says Cable. “Just checking.” He stares at the popcorn ceiling and the gaudy cowboy-print ceiling lamp, and grins to himself. “I'm great, by the way.”

“I know,” says Frank tartly. “You're in my head.”

Cable laughs and pats his hand, and heaves himself to his feet with a loud chorus of mattress springs. He goes to the bathroom and cleans himself up, offering a running commentary on the impeccable decor of the motel and, subsequently, Frank's taste. 

“They've got rattlesnakes painted on the toilet seat,” he says, looking around the door at Frank, still sacked out on the bed with his eyes closed and his fingers laced over his sternum. “Frank. There are horseshoes on the shower curtain.”

“S’help you get lucky,” Frank says, smiling inwardly as Cable makes a scoffing noise. He waves away the offer of a wet facecloth and trades places with Cable, washing the filmy cold cum from his belly and splashing his face with cold water while Cable pulls down the ugly nylon coverlet and makes himself comfortable on the bed, turning on the tv for background noise. 

Frank examines himself in the mirror. He looks surprisingly well rested for once. The dark circles under his eyes aren't as pronounced, and the afternoon in the sun has left him looking more alive than normal. 

_ Survival rations, _ he thinks to himself. 

“So,” says Cable after a while. “I thought the implication was that you were inviting me in for coffee?”

“Fuck off,” grouses Frank, but he still steps outta the bathroom to frown at the clean budget coffeemaker. “You think your lady at the front office can come work this?”

Behind him Cable laughs warmly. A phantom touch strokes up the inside of his arm, pulls at him by the shoulder and turning him around with gentle force so he's got no choice but to look at Cable stretched out huge and naked on the plain motel sheets, his body endless broad planes of skin and gleaming warm metal, watching him with a pleased expression on his face. 

“Come back here,” he says. “I wasn't being serious.”

“I should move my truck,” he says, gamely trying to change the subject in an attempt to tamp down the hot squirming feeling in his gut at the way Cable is looking at him. Like Frank matters, like he _ needs _ Frank back in his space. He starts opening drawers looking for coffee packets and mugs, the weight of Cable’s pleased expression settling on his shoulders like a heavy blanket. 

Stupid to put too much weight on the cum-dumb look on the face of a guy who came his brains out not even half an hour previous. He's never been good at reading people, or at least reading expressions that settle on the more positive side of the emotional spectrum. He'd be a prize idiot if he started putting all his faith into that now. 

“I’ll move it when I go back to the diner for takeout,” says Cable. Those gentle invisible hands tug Frank across the room, onto the bed. He reaches down and takes him by the wrist, just enough telegraph to his motions to keep Frank from twitching away, and draws him up between his thighs. “I saw pie in the dessert case. You like apricot pie, right? I remember we had some at that place in Nashua.”

Frank squints up the vast plain of Cable’s chest, metal and muscle rising and falling like waves under his chin as Cable gets his breath back. “Nashua? That was… jesus, a year and a half ago.”

Cable smiles serenely and rubs his thumb against the thick swell of muscle at Frank's shoulder, over his back, settling over his shoulder blade to knuckle at the bone. “Mmhmm. I like to remember things. Never know when it might be important later.”

He avoids his eyes, feeling a hot creeping embarrassment crawling up his spine, horrible and tantalising in equal amounts. “You need to keep yourself busier if that's the kind of shit you're focusing on. Apricot pie.”

“Be quiet, Princess” says Cable, his tone teasing and light. “I don't hear you saying I'm wrong. Besides,” he adds, lifting his head enough to stare him down, cool light flickering and snapping from his dud eye. “If I don't pay attention then maybe my lovely wife is going to wander back to Madripoor without me.” 

“Stow it,” he mutters. “You gotta knock it off with that shit.”

Cable shrugs and relaxes again, closing his eyes. “Just getting you used to it, Mrs Summers.” A long moment passes before he adds, “I can stop if you want.”

Frank opens his mouth, then closes it again. He takes his time trying to figure out how to put any of this into words, trying to make his mouth spit out the confusing mess in his head ‘bout how much he hates that he likes it, that it's demeaning and humiliating and it makes a hot sizzle crawl up his spine and something about it makes him proud, _ and and and... _

_ No, _ he thinks as hard as he can. He can see the word registering with Cable, a minute flinch as it lands in his head booming loud. _ You don't gotta stop it. It's… I like… _

_ You like fighting against it, _ says Cable in his head, cutting to the heart of the matter. 

“Come here,” he says, metal arm wide in an invitation for Frank to move up and get comfortable. “I get it,” he adds, and shakes his head before Frank’s dumbshit brain can spit out any number of justifications as to why Cable’s wrong, that he's reading too much into it, that it's-- 

“It was apricot though, right?”

“Yeah,” says Frank, pulling the remote out from under his lower back. He goes hunting for the classic movie channels, finally stopping on a broadcast of Where Eagles Dare only twenty minutes in. Going for a western movie while dozing under a motel-quality print of mesas and cowboys and a lonely campfire feels a little too on the nose for the moment. “You got it, apricot. Get me a double slice later if you're offering.”

“Good.” Cable sounds just on the pleasant side of smug. “Apricot. I told it was important enough to remember.”

**Author's Note:**

> [stryfeposting.tumblr.com](http://stryfeposting.tumblr.com)


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